


An Advanced Guide to Biochemical Cantrips

by Ceia



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Dr. Junkenstein being a dirty bastard, F/M, Femdom, Magic-Users, Masturbation, Mercyrat, One-Sided Attraction, Porn With Plot, Sex Magic, Smut, Witchenstein, halloween terror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-08-07 14:20:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16410092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ceia/pseuds/Ceia
Summary: Banished from Adlersbrunn, Dr. Junkenstein is struggling to make ends meet when he receives a mysterious invitation from the Witch of the Wilds.Looks like it's time to fulfil his end of their deal.





	An Advanced Guide to Biochemical Cantrips

**Author's Note:**

> My intention was to finish the story that was originally posted here last year. After re-reading it, however, I was very unhappy with many elements of the plot, a lot of the characterisation/writing, and felt the story needed to be completely overhauled in order for me to continue it without wanting to set my keyboard, hands and computer on fire. 
> 
> As such, here is a new and very much improved Advanced Guide for 2018!
> 
> Thank you to [Sneepy](https://time-for-mayhem.tumblr.com/) for betaing the updated and corrected version of this story, and [Muppet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_irradiated_muppet/profile) for assisting me with the original!

“Found some.”

Roadhog clambers over to the other side of the thicket and Jamison excitedly looks around to see what he’s managed to pick. His face falls to find that Roadhog’s hands are cupped around a variety of mostly green and red berries.

“Good on ya, mate, but… those ones aren’t ripe.”

Jamison can’t see Roadhog’s eyes through the mask, but even if he could, he knows he’d only get a blank stare from him anyway.

“Ripe ones, Roadhog—y'hafta make sure they’re  _ripe!_ ”

This still doesn’t yield any acknowledgment. Jamison sighs, extracting himself from the brambles so he can show Roadhog a better example of a blackberry he’s just picked himself.

“See? Look at this one.” Jamison rolls it between his thumb and forefinger, holding it out so Roadhog can see. “ _This_ is ripe. In’t she a beaut?”

Roadhog drops all the berries he’s picked so he can reach out and take it.

“Ripe,” he repeats.

“Yeeees, that’s right!” Jamison laughs. “Look how it’s black all over, not too soft but not too firm.  _Plump_. No, don’t crush it, that’s our only—!”

Too late. It’s probably an accident, or perhaps a test of his tactile pressure to ascertain what ‘plump’ means. Jamison knows Roadhog can’t fully control his strength yet. To be fair, the berry was little more than a flea in his monstrous hand anyway, but when these little berries have been their only palatable source of food for the last few days every single one of them counts. No matter where he places his trap it never gets anything more than the occasional rabbit, and Jamison is sick to death of eggs and mushrooms.

“Plump,” Roadhog says.

Jamison groans, smacking his good palm to his forehead. He is nothing if not grateful for Roadhog’s return following his one-man pillaging of Adlersbrunn, but by  _god_  if he doesn’t wish that bloody Witch had imparted the gift of immediate practical wisdom upon him, too.

“Right, not to worry!” Jamison says, clapping his hands together with renewed determination. “Just—you don’t need to crush ‘em to check ‘em, got it? All you need to do is make sure they’re black.  _Black!_ ”

Roadhog nods. Jamison knows he isn’t stupid, but it feels like his stomach has been rumbling since breakfast this morning so it’s more of a struggle than usual to maintain his patience. Before all of this he’d envisioned Roadhog as a fully-functioning adult—a partner in crime, even, capable of laughing at his jokes and knocking back ales in the pub after a long day working in the lab.

Instead, Roadhog has turned out to be a seven foot newborn with the strength of a beast and the spatial awareness of a child.  

Jamison gives his big green arm an encouraging pat, feeling guilty for getting frustrated. At least he’s learning quickly. “Doing a bang-up job, mate. Keep it up! We’ll head back home once we’ve filled the basket, alright?”

Roadhog nods again before slouching back off to gather more berries. It’s a while before the basket between them is full, nightfall on its way by the time they’re done. It isn’t safe to stay out any later than this, not when they’re this deep in the woods. Jamison gets out his wind-up navigator and sets it down, its little legs trundling over the earth as it leads them back through the forest.

Roadhog is carrying the berries and another basket of mushrooms. Along their way they stumble upon the carcasses of some rotting pumpkins in what appears to be an abandoned vegetable patch, so Jamison stops to scoop out the seeds. There’s an apple tree here too but its fruit has been on the ground for too long, the apples decaying and riddled with worms. Jamison rummages through the pockets of his coat until he finds his notepad and uses the navigator to determine how far they are from the cabin and what direction they’ve come from. Hopefully they’ll be able to return here at some point and get some decent apples. Then they continue on home, their journey uncomfortably quiet save the crunching of leaves beneath their feet.

“Think I’ve got some sugar left,” Jamison says, bothered by the silence. “I’ll stew the blackberries, see if I can scrape up the last of the flour for a crumble. Reckon that’d go down a treat!”

“Crumble?”

“Yeah, it’s a pudding, y’know, for after supper. You get butter, flour and sugar and mix it up until it goes all… well, crumbly. Then you put it in the oven with fruit, like apples or blackberries, and bake it ‘til it’s golden brown.”

Talking about it is making Jamison’s hunger worse. He grimaces, wondering how he could make a crumble work without butter or any other fat substitute. Hopefully the Shrike will have some in her cart tomorrow.

“Sounds good,” Roadhog grunts. Jamison smiles at him, pleased by this unprompted opinion.

“It is! Don’t you worry, I’ll knock one up for ya to try when we’re home. Not long now!”

The wind has picked up by the time they reach the cabin, sky a deep and inky blue overhead. Roadhog stands behind him, acting as a barrier against the wind while Jamison fishes out the keys from his pocket and hurries to open the three locks on the door. Jamison’s teeth are chattering—he really should’ve worn his woollen coat today now that the chill of winter is closing in.

He gives the generator a kick on his way in and the lamps peppered around the cabin flicker on. It’s cold inside as they’ve both been out all day, so Jamison keeps his coat on until the wood burning stove is lit and its fire is enough to penetrate the kitchen. It’s probably the only good thing about being stuck in this small space—warming the entire house takes no time at all, what with the stove in here and the fireplace in the hallway. Roadhog can light that one himself now, which is handy. Jamison shrugs off his coat once his chill has eased and gets started on supper.

Roadhog sits quietly at the table with a book. Jamison chatters while he cooks, though it’s mostly to himself, as usual. Once again they’re having scrambled eggs and fried mushrooms for supper, this time with a generous sprinkling of toasted pumpkin seeds. The crumble is baking in the oven while they eat, Jamison having used cooking oil in lieu of butter. He can’t imagine it’s going to be very good but until the Shrike comes this is all they’ve got. He also isn’t quite sure if Roadhog even needs to eat—the Witch didn’t specify what degree of life she’d given him—but Jamison can’t just sit here and eat in front of him if he doesn’t.

His hunger temporarily sated when supper is finished, Jamison goes over some grammar and vocabulary with Roadhog before they both head into the lab that was originally the cabin’s living area. It’s nothing compared to Jamison’s old lab back in Adlersbrunn, but it has a desk and a workbench, a big shelf for all his supplies. It’s enough for now.

Jamison has some potions to prepare for some of his remaining customers. He feels relaxed when he sits at his desk, happy to have smooth glass beakers in his hands after a day of foraging through thorns. He can’t control what grows in the thicket, but he can control how much of one chemical needs to go into another. This work is all about precise measurements, about the tangible creation of matter. Jamison never feels happier than now, gloves and goggles on, hands and mind occupied.

He talks through what he’s doing with Roadhog who seems content just watching him. When the potions are finished Jamison supposes it’s time for a bath, so Roadhog runs one for him and pulls up a stool to read another book while he bathes. Jamison doesn’t usually spend more time than is strictly necessary in the bath, but today he leans back, allows his body to unwind in the water while it’s hot. His mechanical arm is in his bedroom, pegleg leaned against the copper bathtub.

“Gotta make those vials for Zhou and Vaswani tomorrow,” Jamison muses, rubbing his prickly jaw with his thumb and forefinger in thought. “Still waiting on Lacroix to send the rest of her payment.” He was a few pennies short last week and still owes the Shrike for it—needs to ask if there’s anything he can offer instead of money. There must be something he can do for her.

“Hope we get some apples soon,” Jamison says. He looks up at the wooden ceiling, salivating at the thought of biting into something tart and crisp. “Just need a few decent ones and I can cut ‘em open, fill ‘em with sugar and bake ‘em. Ooohhh,  _lovely._  Been too long since I had some nice baked apples!”

Roadhog hums, a new and thoughtful sound for him. Jamison perks up hearing it as it’s a bit more human than his usual one word offerings, meaning he really is learning. Surely a proper conversation isn’t too far off now.

Now that Jamison’s in the bath he’s too tired to move—can’t even bring himself to reach over for the soap. Part of why he dislikes bathing is because it drains his energy more than relaxes him most of the time, feels like a waste when he could be in the lab doing something more productive. He looks over to Roadhog, who lifts his head slightly in acknowledgement.

“You check the chickens earlier?”

“Yeah.”

“Any eggs?”

“Few more.”

“Did ya grab ‘em?”

“Yeah. Put them in the basket, in the kitchen.”

Jamison smiles. “Nice one, mate.”

Roadhog goes back to his book.  Quiet descends again, the wind outside making the rickety cabin walls creak and groan around them. Jamison drums his fingers on the base of the tub, waiting for Roadhog to say something of his own accord.

“What did ya think of the crumble?” he asks, not patient enough to wait for more than ten seconds.

Roadhog looks up. “Good,” he says. “Sweet. Liked the berries.”

Jamison grins. He’s happy that this is another new opinion, albeit more prompted than the last. “Ta,” he says. “I’ll make it again, make it better next time.” The crumble wasn’t as bad as he’d expected, but there wasn’t enough sugar or flour to make it a crumble so much as a failed blackberry cobbler. Supper was only a couple of hours ago but Jamison’s stomach is rumbling again at the thought of proper food, audibly now. If only Roadhog had something, anything to say to distract him from it.

He doesn’t, but the water is a perfect temperature now. It’ll probably stay like this for another few minutes, then it’ll get too cold too quickly. Just one more minute, Jamison thinks, closing his eyes. Just one more minute then I’ll get out. He stays still in the tub, silence filling the room while he soaks in the last few moments of perfect warmth.

“Wish we weren’t banished,” Jamison mutters.

Roadhog says nothing, just holds the towel for him when he finally stands up to get out.

Those long, long nights spent working in the castle until the early hours feel like they were a long, long time ago now. But Jamison can’t feel hungry if he’s asleep, and he doesn’t have enough materials to work until sunrise anymore. He puts the fires out and double checks the front door before bidding Roadhog goodnight, feeling tired after his bath and looking forward to the supplies they’ll get in the morning. Roadhog will probably go and sit in the kitchen like always, read until he feels like closing his eyes, if he ever does.

The bedroom is warm but Jamison’s bedding is cold when he climbs in, his pegleg now propped against the little bedside table along with his mechanical arm. Sometimes he lights a candle to read a book himself but he doesn’t feel like it tonight, just wants to immerse himself in the darkness of the room and wrap up under the covers. Jamison tugs the blankets around his lanky, shivering body.

It’s been a good day with Roadhog, really, but he’s frustrated by their constant lack of resources and the stress of trying to scrape a means of living together outside Adlersbrunn. Jamison can’t remember the last time he had a proper conversation with someone. He misses going to the pub after spending all day in the lab and having a laugh with the rosy-cheeked barmaid in there, or chatting with the butcher over the counter while picking out sausages for breakfast. The Shrike doesn’t really talk much and even then her visits are only once a week. He thought he’d never ask or wish for anything again after the Witch brought Roadhog to life, but ever since his completion Jamison has never felt so alone, stuck out in the woods trying to teach Roadhog how to live.

Irritated by his loneliness, Jamison turns from one side to the other in an attempt to get warm. When even this doesn’t seem to work, he decides to try his other method. A guaranteed way of raising his body temperature.

Jamison lays on his back and arches his hips slightly up from the bed, reaching through his cotton undergarments with his remaining hand. He’s resorted to masturbation almost every evening since his banishment, a kind of comforting substitute for the hot malt drinks he used to have before bed, and flicks through the usual imagery to get himself hard. The rosy-cheeked barmaid leaning over to give him his drink, then the long haired librarian smiling shyly and thanking him for returning a book. Jamison huffs a little, thinking about pulling open their blouses and hoisting up their petticoats, pinning them or perhaps guiding them onto a bed—his bed, or theirs, he’s too needy to care for the details right now. But it seems even these thoughts aren’t enough for him tonight, cock limp in his hand despite his best efforts. He rolls over onto his side again, eyebrows knitting together in concentration.

Well, needs must. Jamison decides it’s time to indulge in his ultimate fantasy. It’s of the Witch, of course. Recently it’s always been that fucking Witch when his usual routine fails to get him hard. Probably because she’s the last woman who gave him any sort of positive attention, a fact which embarrasses and frustrates him but not enough to stop him from thinking about her, nor to stop his dick from hardening in his palm as he does.

Jamison can picture her as clearly as the day she first appeared in his Adlersbrunn lab, can smell the enchanting musk of her perfume as though she were here in the room beside him now. Legs that last for miles, hair like cream satin and eyes of shining sapphire. Curves, hips,  _tits,_ all wrapped up in brown and burgundy.

Fuelled by frustration and with his cock finally hard, Jamison growls against the pillow as he starts to pump himself. Sometimes he imagines the Witch whisking him out of this shitty banishment and away to her lair. Sometimes he corners her in an alleyway back in Adlersbrunn, away from the prying eyes of the villagers and her pumpkin-headed lover, where he can push her against the brick wall of the tavern to have his way with her standing up. Sometimes he kidnaps her, the Witch kept as a submissive prisoner in his lab, and Jamison straps her down and laughs while he plays with her, experimenting on her with all of his toys, until she’s pleading, moaning,  _writhing_ for him to do  _more_.

Wherever the fantasy takes him, it always ends with Jamison’s mouth on her neck and her body pliant under his hands—both of them, naturally, as his imaginary Witch always clicks her fingers to replace his metal arm with one of flesh and blood. And it always,  _always_  ends with Jamison spilling himself inside her, an indulgent voice mewling in his ear and those thick, creamy thighs squeezing around him, holding him in place until he’s utterly spent.

Having the Witch to himself is Jamison’s favourite fantasy because it’s so far removed from anything that could ever happen in real life that he doesn’t have to feel guilty or ashamed for it—doesn’t have to face her like he did the barmaid or librarian. He was at her mercy when the Witch so casually waltzed into his life that day and bestowed life upon Roadhog as though it was nothing. Years of hard work, of mathematics and science and blood, sweat and tears, laughed away by something as vacuous as “magic”.

Oh, now he’s  _really_  riled up. Jamison thinks about the Witch lying next to him right here in his bed—about the revealing cut of her bodice, the dip of her waist and curve of her hips in that fitted, whoreish garment that supposedly constitutes her witch’s robe. Her hands on his cock instead of his own, stroking him now that he’s fully hard.

 _Do you like that, doctor?_ she’d say, her voice sinful and sultry.  _Or would you prefer it if I used my mouth?_

Jamison shudders, wondering what it would be like to have the Witch’s lips and tongue on him. He doesn’t have a point of reference for this, his sexual experience being somewhat limited from years spent studying, so instead he pictures her beneath him. He tears off the fantasy Witch’s bodice and spreads his fingers over her exposed breasts, pinches her pink nipples until she whimpers for him.

 _Oh, doctor_ , she’d say breathlessly, arching her back.  _Doctor, I need more, give me more!_

Fuck, that’s good, that’s  _good._  Jamison grits his teeth and pumps harder, cock slick with pre as his palm slides over it. The fantasy snowballs until the Witch is fully naked and on all fours in front of him, spread out in the most lewd and depraved position he can imagine, cunt soaked and ready to be filled. This time he has the Witch at his mercy instead—payback for how she caught him at his most vulnerable and made a mockery of his science with her ridiculous spells.  _Please, doctor, I need you inside me,_  she’d beg, and Jamison licks his lips, throbbing at the thought of tugging on that silky blonde ponytail while he fucks her like a dog.

He only needs a few seconds of this and then he’s groaning, the sound muffled against the pillow as he comes hard into his hand, muscles completely tensed up. When he releases Jamison feels sweaty and exhausted by it, as he always does when he comes thinking about her. Christ, it only took a minute.

At least this is something the Witch can do for him time and time again—something she can’t hold over him. And at least Jamison is finally warm now, too, warm enough to push off his newly-dampened undergarments and fall asleep not long afterwards, feeling sated and proud of himself for having such a filthy, filthy mind.

  
*

 

The next morning Jamison is up early in anticipation of the Shrike’s weekly visit. It’s sunny, a pleasant change from the steel skies which normally plague the black forest, and Jamison is full of energy as he tends to the chickens. Roadhog follows him outside to scatter corn and refresh the water trough. The Shrike normally arrives before midday, and sure enough, a few hours after breakfast and just as Jamison is marking last night’s vials out for posting later on today, he hears the sound of wooden wheels being pulled over the cobblestone path outside. Just in time for lunch, Jamison thinks, grinning.

“She’s here!” he tells Roadhog, bouncing from foot to pegleg in glee as he unlocks the front door. “Never thought I’d be this excited over some bloody bread and cheese, I’ll tell ya that!”

For a fee, the Shrike supplies goods to those living on the outskirts of the town—mostly criminals, a category which Jamison supposes he now fits. The Shrike is an elderly woman who Jamison believes to be an Arabian traveller, though she’s been lurking around Adlersbrunn in recent times. It’s impossible to tell just how old she is but she has pronounced lines on her face and her hair is whiter than fresh snow, plaited and curled around her neck like a scarf. One of her eyes is permanently covered with a patch.

Jamison opens the door before she has a chance to knock, greeting her with his usual gusto. The Shrike doesn’t share his enthusiasm.

“Good day to you, Mr. Junkenstein,” she says, flatly. “Are you keeping well?”

“Much better now that you’re here,” Jamison says, rubbing his hands together. He’s too hungry to be offended by her addressing him with the wrong title. “What ya got for us today then?!”

“Actually, I was rather hoping you would be paying what you owe before we discussed what treats I have for you in my cart,” the Shrike says. Jamison deflates.

“Ah… yes. Well, er, about that, I’m still waiting on payment from one of my customers so I don’t, er—have it just yet, s’a matter of fact!” Jamison laughs, shrilly. The Shrike looks unimpressed.

“I see,” she says.

“I have this week’s! Just—not last. Though I was  _wondering_ ,” Jamison says, drawing out the syllables as he drums his fingertips together, “if I could perhaps interest you in one of my special potions? Y’know, as a compromise. I do an  _excellent_  serum that would help, er, prolong your youthful radiance, if you would be so inclined?”

He’s hoping that the Shrike will take kindly to such a generous offer, but judging by the harsh little laugh she gives, it would appear that he’s said the wrong thing. Jamison's stomach grumbles as if to remind him that he  _really_  shouldn't bugger this up.

“Or—or perhaps I could provide something else!” Jamison says hurriedly. “How about an elixir, to— _invigorate_  your husband, shall we say?” he adds, waggling his browbones, but the Shrike curtly shakes her head.

“I’m flattered by your concern for my appearance and for implying the impotence of my imaginary husband, but your potions are of no use nor interest to me.”

Jamison swallows. With nothing left to give but a scowl and a grumbling stomach he, reluctantly, empties out the coins from his pouch into the Shrike’s wrinkled hand. Her fingers curl around them, uncovered eye glancing up and down his body as if to say  _that's it?_  Jamison titters nervously.

“I suppose I can allow one more week for you to pay what you owe,” the Shrike sniffs, pulling back the cloth on the cart. Jamison heaves a sigh of relief and his mouth waters as he looks over her supplies. There are various loaves and bundles of fresh fruit and vegetables, cheeses and condiments wrapped up neatly in parchment and string. He reaches inside for a big wholemeal loaf only to have his hand smacked away.

"Oi, what'sat for?!"

“This is no charity service, Mr. Junkenstein,” the Shrike says. “Until you are able to provide adequate payment, I am afraid your options are limited.” She crouches down to open a compartment beneath the main cart, pulling out a wooden tray containing some less than savoury looking goods. Jamison sputters as she hands it over.

“These are just the bloody leftovers from last week!” he cries.

“That is correct,” she tells him, smiling unkindly. “Pay what you owe and then you’ll get to pick and choose as you like. If you do not, then I will have no choice but to cut you out of my list.”

Jamison’s fists clench. He’s waited days for this visit, for something proper to eat, and this? This is all they're getting?

Roadhog grunts and takes a threatening step forward, clearly sensing his anger, but Jamison reaches back to stop him. The last thing he needs is Roadhog to attack the Shrike and limit their options even further.

The Shrike’s eye flicks between them but she doesn’t bristle at all in the face of Roadhog’s menacing posture. In fact she’s still smiling, probably because she knows that Jamison has no choice in this matter if he wants anything halfway decent to eat while he’s stuck out here in the forest.

With no alternative, Jamison snatches the least mouldy looking produce before the Shrike packs the tray away and bids him farewell. He curses her when she’s out of earshot, disappearing amongst the trees. Only a few weeks prior to this money was of no concern to him because the King paid him a decent wage even if his work was never once appreciated. Now the great Dr. Junkenstein is reduced to hand-outs from a tight old hag who won’t even give him the courtesy of honouring his doctorate. If only that fucking Lacroix had paid him. If only he could order Roadhog to chase down that bitch of a Shrike and steal everything in her cart for himself!

“That fucking dried-up  _cunt!_ ” Jamison snarls, shoving their new flour and sugar, the only fresh items this time, into the pantry. Roadhog watches him gesture and shout, holding the single loaf they’ve been given. It’s stale and mouldy and Jamison grabs it from him to try and scrape the mould off with a knife. A brilliant scientist scraping mould off stale bread because it’s all they’ve got until next week. His stomach curdles in anger.

That fucking, cunting Shrike.

No, Jamison thinks. That fucking, cunting Witch is to blame for this, giving with one hand and taking with the other! How was he to know that in bringing Roadhog to life she was going to destroy his in the process?

“Blackberries,” Roadhog says, slapping a heavy hand on Jamison’s shoulder and jolting him from these unhelpful thoughts. It’s a new gesture for Roadhog, and one which Jamison appreciates despite the prospect of spending all afternoon out in the forest picking blackberries again. As futile as everything feels, at least Roadhog is beside him in this.

“Alright,” Jamison huffs, dropping the loaf and taking a breath to calm himself down. Getting worked up is of no use to him right now and he shouldn’t blame the Witch for this situation, either. It’s his own shortcomings, his own inability as a scientist that led her to him, after all. No matter how isolated he may feel, without Roadhog Jamison knows he would have no one at all.

It’s enough to make him put on a big smile. “Y’know what?” Jamison says, straightening up. “Not gonna roll over and take this bloody—shit. Go and get your coat on, mate! Let’s get some grub!”

Sadly, their venture out into the forest is mostly fruitless, of course, in both a literal and figurative sense. The sun is setting by the time they trudge back home and while the day has been brighter and less cold, Jamison is starving when the cabin finally comes back into view. They didn’t even get a full basket of blackberries this time, probably due to the wind from last night blowing all the ripe ones away. Nothing more in the trap, either. Like the animals in the forest are trying to spite him, aware of his banishment and staying well away.

“Shit,” Jamison says, a sharp cuss as he stops dead along the cobblestone path. He completely forgot to make Zhou and Vaswati’s vials today. Without any income he’s going to be in even deeper trouble with the Shrike next week, unless Lacroix sends what she owes and he can find some other way of getting more money before then. God, he can’t believe he let that fucking Shrike ruin his day to such a degree that he forgot to do his job—his ONLY job while they’re trapped out here in the bloody wilderness.

Of all the fuck-ups… Jesus, this one really takes the cake.

It makes Jamison feel so miserable he almost doesn’t want to return to the cabin. Roadhog suggests having a crumble again but the prospect of doing anything more than just unlocking the door and going straight to bed feels insurmountable. No money, no decent food. Can’t even do his fucking job right. Jamison drags his feet along the cobblestones, patting down his pockets to try and find the door keys. Please, he thinks, closing his eyes,  _please_  say I haven’t managed to lose the goddamn keys as well.

“Food,” Roadhog says, patting his back.

“Alright alright,” Jamison sighs. “Could eat a bloody horse myself.”

“No,” Roadhog says. He pats Jamison again. “Food. There’s food _._ ”

“Huh?”

Roadhog is pointing down by the front door. Jamison’s eyes widen.

“What the—” he starts, cut off by the shock of what he’s seeing. Jamison finds the energy to jog over and crouch by the door, where there are two large wicker baskets full of fruit, vegetables and baked goods wrapped up in cellophane.

They look more beautiful than any bouquet he's ever seen. A sense of dread floods Jamison almost as soon as he starts feeling relieved, because he needs to be sure this isn’t some awful prank or hallucination. He immediately stands and turns, dizzy from moving so quickly on an empty stomach as his eyes dart around. There’s no sign of anyone else nearby—no perpetrator or guardian angel to claim responsibility for this.

It’s rare for him to be rendered speechless, but Jamison is right now. He drops down to haul a basket into his arms, allowing himself to be relieved again by the weight of it, the fact that it doesn’t just vanish in thin air. It’s heavy in his arms, absolutely loaded with food. Jamison puffs out a high-pitched laugh.

“Right! Er! Well then! Roadhog, grab the other one and let’s get our arses back inside!”

When the lights are on and the door is locked again behind them, Jamison instructs Roadhog to set the other basket down on the kitchen table. He stands in appreciative awe of them for a second before tearing open the cellophane and hastily unpacking everything, still scared that he might be dreaming this, that it might all disappear before he can take a single bite.

“Pickle, jam, honeycomb,” Jamison says, babbling as he pulls out various glass pots. There’re blocks of cheese wrapped in parchment, and when he looks over Roadhog is carefully picking out bundles of leek and celery tied with ribbon. There’s broccoli and kale, courgettes, an aubergine. Bell peppers and vine tomatoes. Jamison runs his good hand back through his hair and laughs when Roadhog holds up a bag of sweet pastries in one hand and a big pink apple in the other. What in the goddamned hell is going on here?!

But Jamison is starving, too hungry to lose himself in the hows and whys, so he slices up one of the loaves to make some quick cheese and pickle sandwiches. The crust is rich and the bread is soft as he tears off his first bite, Roadhog sitting beside him doing the same. God, it’s the tastiest thing he thinks he’s ever eaten, and it’s made even better by the fact that it isn’t some illusion which dissolves into nothing on his tongue. Jamison has the brief panic that all of this could still be poisoned—should’ve tested it really, taken some things into the lab to make sure—but it doesn’t taste poisoned if it is, and he just can’t bring himself to worry about it. Eat now, worry later, Jamison thinks, stuffing his face with the bread and cheese he's missed so terribly.

Jamison packs the rest of the food away and chops up some vegetables, knowing he’s in need of real nutrition more than any of the sweet pastries which are ready to eat. Once the vegetables are cooked and some potatoes have crisped in the oven he can’t stop grinning as they tuck into their first decent meal in weeks. He talks with his mouth full about all the different things he can cook now, telling Roadhog excitedly about the recipes he can try. Jamison has always enjoyed cooking, always thought of it as a fun extension of chemistry, but he doesn’t think he’s ever enjoyed it as much as he has tonight.

Finally full, Jamison slumps against the kitchen table with a long and appreciative groan, belly full and body warmed all over from the feeling of being truly satiated. Roadhog seems happy too, his plate empty in front of him, and Jamison wonders if maybe he does need to eat after all. Could the Witch have done a more thorough job than he gave her credit for?

Doesn’t matter. They finally have supplies, a decent stockpile that’ll last until the Shrike’s next visit. This'll afford Jamison more time to catch up on his missed orders.

A fire lit and stoked inside him, Jamison heads into the lab feeling a thousand percent ready to work. He’s got a few more potions he can make for Song and a very particular mechanical ‘toy’ for Colomar, similar to the one he made for Lacroix but with a few additional speed settings which will make it more complex and time-consuming to construct. Jamison calls out to Roadhog, asking him to get the fireplace in the hallway lit to bring more heat into the cabin, before sitting at his desk ready to draw out a plan.

Moving the beakers and bottles aside, he's just getting out his pencil and notebook when he feels a sudden chill behind him. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and Jamison frowns, wondering what Roadhog is doing.

“Alright out there mate?” he calls out. When Roadhog doesn’t respond, Jamison looks around and then jumps right out of his seat, yelling out in shock.

“Hello doc,” says the Reaper. He’s leaning against the door with his arms folded.

“Wha—how—the fucking shitting HELL did you get in here?!”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“Yes it bloody well does!” Jamison shouts, hand clutched over his heart. Oh how he loathes “magic” and this sort of bullshit teleportation it allows these wretched supernatural arseholes! If he hadn’t eaten Jamison thinks he would’ve up and died from the shock of having this pumpkin-headed fuckwit arrive uninvited and unannounced right here in his lab!

“It  _really_  doesn’t matter,” Reaper says firmly, straightening up.  “What  _does_  matter is that I’ve been sent here by my master to ensure that her gifts have been well received.”

“Your—by your  _master?_ ” Jamison scoffs, before he jerks back in realisation. “You mean—the Witch?!”

“Yes.”

“She’s your master?" Jamison says, scratching his cheek. "Ain’t she your—y’know, er. I thought you and she were... uh.”

He curls his thumb and forefinger together into a circle and starts poking a mechanical finger through it. The lights behind Reaper’s eyes narrow.

“Nuh—Never mind!” Jamison squeaks, gripping the desk behind him when Reaper lurches forwards, candle flickering inside his head from the movement. He comes close enough for Jamison to get a waft of burning wax.

“Don’t make me waste any more of my time,” Reaper says, irritably. “As I was saying, my  _master_  has asked me to deliver an important message, and she expects an  _immediate_ response.”

Jamison flinches when Reaper procures an envelope from nothing but the air in front of him. Then his eyes widen, because suddenly he can smell it, that enchanting perfume he’s thought of so many times before in bed. That musky, fragrant, sinful scent. Jamison takes the envelope and tears it open using the letter to hide the heat on his face.  


_My dear Dr. Junkenstein,_

_Please excuse the time which has passed between our last meeting and this letter. I intended to write to you far sooner than this, but unfortunately I have had to dedicate my precious time elsewhere, to matters which have necessitated my presence._

_Now that I find myself ready to return to the Wilds, I was rather hoping you would find dinner at my castle agreeable in order for us to discuss our little deal._

_I look forward to seeing you very soon._

_Yours,_

_A_

  
Jamison doesn’t know what the A stands for, but such exquisite handwriting must belong to the Witch. He reads the letter again, a mixture of emotions stirring within him—trepidation, mostly, but also a slight and undeniable sense of excitement. Maybe just a  _pinch_  of guilt for all those perverted bedtime thoughts when she’s being so… well, worryingly nice. It really has been far too long since he had any substantial human contact.

“You are to attend dinner with my master two days from now,” Reaper tells him, snatching the letter away. Jamison balks.

“Two days?! But that’s—”

“Not a problem, right,  _doc?_ ”

Immediately thinking of the potions which need to be prepared and sent out before then, Jamison panics.

“I—but I have commitments, customers, I can’t just—!”

“Then you’ll have to start making your arrangements,” Reaper growls, stepping so close Jamison jerks back into the table, beakers clinking from being jolted. Reaper cracks his knuckles right in Jamison’s face, as if he couldn’t be any more transparent about this. “I’m  _sure_  you wouldn’t want to disappoint my master, now, would you?”

“N—No, certainly not,” Jamison says, shaking his head. “Two days, right, gotcha!”

Reaper’s face is carved into a permanent grin, but Jamison can hear it in his voice, too, as he laughs.

“Good. Then I shall return to collect you and your companion two days from now, at sundown.”

Well, at least Roadhog has been included in this. Jamison has so many more questions to ask but suddenly there’s a crackle of bright light beneath them and Reaper is engulfed in smoke and flames, disappearing just as Jamison shields his eyes.

Of fucking course.

He has to spend the next half an hour on his hands and knees scrubbing away the soot from Reaper’s teleportation, because  _who else_  but the scientist has to clean up the mess left by magic, and then he finds himself sitting back at his desk wondering what in the bloody shitting hell has happened today.

One thing is certain. Jamison wasn’t expecting the baskets to have come from the Witch. He supposes he should be touched by it. Instead it has him wondering if her purpose for sending them is to gain yet more leverage over him, as if she doesn’t already have one huge black question mark hanging over his head!

It then occurs to Jamison that besides her reasoning for sending the baskets—how did the Witch even know he was almost out of supplies, anyway?

He can feel his face heating up again. Surely she hasn’t been watching over him all this time… has she?

“Fire’s lit,” Roadhog says, poking his head around the lab room door. Completely oblivious to what's just happened. Jamison calls him in, pushing aside the emerging images of a voyeuristic Witch to provide a hasty explanation of their new situation, before returning to his desk and scribbling down a list of things to do between this evening and sundown two days from now.

Whatever the Witch’s reasoning, and whatever it is she actually wants from him, it isn’t like Jamison has a choice in honouring her dinner. But when the day finally draws to an end, and he’s alone in his bed once again with nothing but his lonely mind to keep him company in the dead of night, Jamison can’t help thinking about the Witch when his hand is back between his legs—and he wonders if she might be thinking about him, too.

*

 


End file.
